


The Striped Sofa

by salixbabylon



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salixbabylon/pseuds/salixbabylon
Summary: Forladykatiewenchwho saw the picture and gave me the prompt "Eames had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. And Arthur does naughty things to him til it wears him out and then holds him close while he sleeps."





	The Striped Sofa

Eames was having an utterly _shit_ day. The café on the corner was shockingly _out_ of his favorite muffins, and the coffee he’d got had tasted burnt. The dry cleaner had ruined his shiny blue-green-purple shirt made of some space-age material that gave Arthur horrors. They’d returned the melted glob of shiny plastic-fabric mess to him with a coupon for free ironing, as if that was somehow going to make amends. On his way to find a bakery which the café had told him _might_ still have some of his muffins, the sky opened up in a Biblical deluge, and of course Eames had left his umbrella at the cleaners, along with his usual chipper mood.

He failed to find the bakery, got lost in some of the medieval back alleys London was full of, and when he stood at the curb waiting to catch the bus, rain still pissing down on him like God’s personal joke, he realized his phone had gotten so wet that it was no longer working.

When he sneezed on the bus, no one blessed him, and in fact the attractive woman who’d been eyeing him had wrinkled her nose and turned away. What? It wasn’t his fault he didn’t have a tissue; he wasn’t _Arthur_. Arthur would probably have had a cotton hanky, besides, not a tissue. And it would have been _wet_ , so there.

The bloke who got on at the tube stop with him had checked out Eames’s arse on the way in, but now was too absorbed in the Metro to even make eye contact as he exited. It had stopped raining by the time he got back home with his ruined shirt, broken phone, no muffins, and minus one umbrella.

Eames sniffled as he unlocked the door. He wasn’t sad; his nose was just runny. “Arthur, luv?”

“Stop. Stand there.” Arthur came to the door, carrying a towel. “You’ll drip all over everything.”

He made a face at his lover. “It’s my house.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and shook the towel meaningfully. “Strip.”

Now, that w as more like it. “If you wanted to get me naked, darling, that was all you had to say.”

“I phoned and texted, but you never answered. What were you doing that you were too busy to look at your phone?”

It was kind of adorable how insecure Arthur could still be, even after Eames had spent all that time pursuing him. Not to mention that if Eames _was_ being unfaithful, Arthur could kick his arse. He might not _win_ , since Eames was definitely stronger, but Arthur was a wily little fuck, and fast. And he bit.

“No one’s touched my cock since you, I promise.” Eames scowled as he moved to the sofa, toweling his hair dry and then collapsing onto the cushions. “You should learn to trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone; you’re not being persecuted in particular,” Arthur noted. “You’re in a mood; what happened to you today?”

“Everything! It was all an unmitigated _disaster_.” Eames recounted his miseries, from the bad coffee, dearth of muffins, and the destruction of his beloved shirt. Arthur was unable to keep the smile off his face at that particular tirade, complete with a show-and-tell that concluded with Eames flinging the scraps of shiny melted mess in his face. “And if you mention the words ‘silver’ or ‘lining’, I will punch you right in those adorable dimples, yeah?”

Arthur mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key, as his shoulders shook with mirth.

“And then, on the way home, soaked to the bone – which not everyone can pull off, but you must admit is a good look for _me_ \- no one flirted! The leggy bird on the bus looked at me like I had the plague when I sneezed, and the bloke from the tube was too absorbed in his stupid _news article_ to even check out my arse when I walked past him!” The outrage in his voice was clear, and yes, all right, maybe it _was_ funny to someone like Arthur, but still! Was a bit of sympathy so much to ask for, in his own home?

He scowled.

“You’re pouting,” Arthur unhelpfully pointed out.

“I hate you.”

Arthur came and sat beside him on the sofa. “Don’t be like that. I’m terribly sorry you had such a horrible day – where no one even had the good sense to let you charm their pants off. Do you want me to make you some hot soup?” He ran a hand through Eames’s hair, rearranging it so it would dry better.

Sighing into the touch, Eames closed his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Arthur and pulled him down. “I have a better idea for getting warmed up.”

“Does it involve me getting undressed and being cold?” Arthur asked skeptically.

“I promise that you won’t be cold for very long, luv. And I’d be _ever_ so comforted,” Eames grinned.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur allowed himself to be pulled on top, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of Eames as they kissed. It was slow and comfortable, and _damn_ but Arthur was warm, like an electric blanket on top of Eames, cozy but with the occasional zap that made things interesting. Thanks to a lifetime of perfecting such skills, Eames soon had Arthur’s clothes decorating the floor and not his body, which was as it should be. The heat was turned up enough that Arthur wasn’t cold, and Eames was blissful, nestled in the embrace of both the sofa and his lover.

Their lips met and parted in a slow rhythm, never entirely separating as they explored the familiar planes of each others’ bodies. In very little time at all, it was downright temperate, sweat beginning to prickle where warm flesh met the same.

“You make everything better.”

Arthur’s smile turned fond for a moment, until Eames’s hands wrapped around his hips and began an unhurried grind. He trailed his tongue down Arthur’s throat, legs twining, explorations merging into a steady, sexy ride.

“Is that what this is? Comfort sex?”

Eames shrugged as best he could. “It’s I-had-a-crap-day-now-come-over-here-and-let’s-have-orgasms-then-maybe-soup-later sex.”

“Ah, yes. Not comfort sex at all.”

Their amused banter increased with the rhythm that they ground their cocks together, sliding in the sweat between their bodies, easy. Nothing with Arthur was easy, except somehow, this. In bed, everything came together, the snark lost its sharp edges, words and bodies fitting together like a perfectly constructed dream. Eames’s breaths grew labored, and he braced a foot on the floor to get better leverage. The way they pressed together, the way Arthur’s tongue lapped kitten-licks on his collarbone, the strength in Arthur’s lean body, the scratch of their pubic hair together, the hitch in his own voice… Eames was suddenly dizzy with lust, needed to come, needed Arthur to come too.

Giving up, he used his superior bulk to flip them over, pressing Arthur down into the cushions, and thrusting urgently as the fingers of orgasm teased at him. Warmth had turned into heat had turned into a fire consuming him, and the flush on Arthur’s pale skin said the same.

“Almost.”

“Yeah,” Arthur gasped, hands pulling Eames to him urgently as they ground together. “Yessss…”

The feeling of sudden moisture, the sight of Arthur’s eyes squeezing closed in bliss, his fingertips digging into a bruising grip - that was all Eames needed for heat to flash through his body like lightning and leave him shaken and breathless. Arthur’s arms loosened but stayed wrapped around him, body shifting until Eames’s head rested on his chest, breathing deep.

After a few minutes Eames grudgingly moved enough for Arthur to worm a hand in-between them, wiping away the mess with Eames’s abandoned towel. He snuggled closer, once the clean-up was finished, and nuzzled Arthur’s neck. Delicate hands carded through his hair.

“Feeling better?”

“Mmm. Much.”

“Now that I’ve let you charm my pants off, do you want dinner?”

He thought about it. “Just want you.”

Arthur’s chest vibrated with his small chuckle. “More than soup? I’m flattered.”

“Shhh…” Eames whispered, burrowing deeper into Arthur’s warm embrace. The sofa had been a wise investment; Arthur had been a better one. Both were comfortable, but only one had the power to fix a day that had nearly been buggered up beyond repair.

And later, there would be soup.

~end~


End file.
